


Devourer

by its_feldspar



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Being The Elite (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Kayfabe Compliant, Other, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 11:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19767448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_feldspar/pseuds/its_feldspar
Summary: The audience gasps. It inhales all at once, as if it were one faithless animal instead of many.





	Devourer

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, I'm not content tagging this very thouroughly. Just know that it is weird and kinda gross, but no more sexual than the canonical human furniture situation. Can't believe that the Dark Order hasn't even had a full match yet and I am already out here inflicting myself on them
> 
> If you got here via name searching yourself or a co-worker, uhhhh, just know that this was written with love and I hope you have a great day!

You do all things simultaneously. 

You stride through the dark woods as the forest shivers around you. You step through into the static place. You leap from the top turnbuckle, and you turn the ring into a killing floor.

The audience gasps. It inhales all at once, as if it were one faithless animal instead of many.

Your creepers swarm around the ring apron and they open their heads to you. The multifaceted input of a dozen willing minds - you sink into them and you can hear every whisper and see every angle. You are inevitable, and there is nothing hidden from you. There is nowhere that you are not.

There was a time before you were Evil, when you were just Uno. That before-time is long ago, better forgotten, and as you stand resplendent amongst the destruction that you have wrought it seems absurd to think that you could have been made of the same base materials as your opponents, dreams and simple flesh. Now, you are much more.

You rebound off the ring ropes. You look up through rustling leaves at the pale crescent of the moon. You bide your time.

The static place, which is always static but never the same. For a long time it was the only place that you were, before you broke free, but now you are there and you are not there. It is always in between, always colorless and empty even though the minutiae may shuffle and shift. You are there when it is a vast warehouse. You are there when it is a subterranean bunker. You are there when it is a boiler room, a cargo container, a morgue. You are there, and it is a barren hallway with flickering fluorescents lights, endless in either direction.

Stu is there too.

He is there across the hall from you, his mask off, holding a dark slab of meat in one hand. Tucked in between the fingers of Stu's other hand is a knife, razor sharp and shining in the harsh humming light as he runs it along the edge of the raw flesh. 

The static place is always empty. There are no windows or doors, much less furnishings, but that is of no concern. Stu prefers to stand and, when you wish to sit, that is what the creepers are for.

"They did not know us." Stu says, and he holds your gaze as he eats another of the wet shavings straight off the knife. He grins, mouth dark, and if there were color in the static place you know that his teeth would be red.

You recline. The warm flesh beneath you shifts and settles eagerly, the creepers hurrying to adapt as you lean back and kick your feet up.

"They will remember," you say. "They will have no choice."

Stu nods, slices off another strip of meat and tosses it to the floor between you with a splatter. At your elbow, a creeper tilts it's masked head towards you and waits for permission, your indulgent nod, before crawling out from under your arm. The creeper scuttles on hands and knees and hunches down even further, teeth and tongue to where the wet morsel rests on the filthy cement.

The blade flickers in Stu hand as he cuts another strip of meat. A second, then a third. He keeps the ends pressed between his thumb and the flat of the knife. They drape over the edge, colorless and glistening, and he holds them out towards you. 

You rise. You stalk across the mat. You crouch down to where the tree roots pierce into the forest floor.

The soft earth gives beneath your feet. There is a flicker of movement on the ridge of one root, hardly visible even in the bright moonlight. A spot on the mottled bark that is shivering with life and violence as two centipedes attempt to tear each other apart. One may be slightly smaller, but both of them are large enough that they could stretch easily along the length of your hand, from the base of your palm to the tips of your fingers. You watch them, the disgusting, hateful creatures that are beautiful to you in a way that does not bear description.

You do not know if they have not yet noticed your presence or if they simply do not care. Theirs is a fury that cannot be disrupted, even by the arrival of a larger predator. You see it there, in that incoherent mass of flailing legs and dull carapaces tangled together, that split apart only to meet again, even more violently than before.

Mere inches away, you continue to observe the arthropod frenzy. You are close enough that, as they grapple together and roll, you can feel it when the tip of one spindly leg grazes across the cheek of your mask. You grin, and you can hear them. The soft night noise of the forest replaced by the sound of seething insect rage, the horrid scuttling and scraping that is so sweet to your ears.

You do all things simultaneously.

You reach out. You pluck the writhing centipedes from the bark. You lift the slick strips of meat from the edge of the blade. You rip the shining hopes for the future from the eyes of all who stand opposed to you.

You put them in your mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't @ me...
> 
> Just kidding, please @ me, I love comments


End file.
